XX

For the next fortnight St. Rest was a scene of constant and unwonted

excitement. There was a continual coming and going, to and from

Abbot's Manor,--some of the guests went away to be replaced by

others, and some who had intended to spend only a week-end and then

depart, stayed on, moved by unaccountable fascination, not only for

their hostess, but for the general pleasantness of the house, and

the old-world, tranquil and beautiful surroundings of the whole

neighbourhood. Lord Charlemont and Mr. Bludlip Courtenay had brought

their newest up-to-date motor-cars with them,--terrible objects to

the villagers whenever they dashed, like escaped waggons off an

express train, through the little street, with their horns blowing

violently as though in a fog at sea. Mrs. Frost was ever on the

alert lest any of her smaller children should get in the way of

these huge rubber-tyred vehicles tearing along at reckless speed,--

and old Josey Letherbarrow resolutely refused to go outside his

garden gate except on Sundays.

"Not but what I ain't willin' an' cheerful to die whenever the Lord

A'mighty sends for me;"--he would say--"But I ain't got no fancy for

bein' gashed and jambled."

'Gashed and jambled,' was his own expression,--one that had both

novelty and suggestiveness. Unfortunately, it happened that a small

pet dog belonging to one of the village schoolboys, no other than

Bob Keeley, the admitted sweet-heart of Kitty Spruce, had been run

over by Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, as that gentleman, driving his car

himself, and staring indifferently through his monocle, had 'timed'

his rush through the village to a minute and a half, on a bet with

Lord Charlemont,--and 'gashed and jambled' was the only description

to apply to the innocent little animal as it lay dead in the dust.

Bob Keeley cried for days,--cried so much, in fact, over what he

considered 'a wicked murder' that his mother sent for 'Passon' to

console him. And Walden, with his usual patience, listened to the

lad's sobbing tale:

"Which the little beast wor my friend!" he gasped amid his tears--

"An' he wor Kitty's friend too! Kitty's cryin' 'erself sick, same as

me! I'd 'ad 'im from a pup--Kitty carried 'im in 'er apron when 'e

was a week old,--he loved me--yes 'e did!--an' 'e slept in my weskit

iviry night of 'is life!--an' he 'adn't a fault in 'im, all lovin'

an' true!--an' now 'e's gone--an'--an'-I HATE the quality up at the

Manor--yes I do!--I HATE 'em!--an' if Miss Vancourt 'adn't never

come 'ome, my doggie 'ad been livin' now, an' we'd all a' bin

'appy!"

Walden patted the boy's rough towzled head gently, and thought of

his faithful 'Nebbie.' It would have been mere hypocrisy to preach

resignation to Bob, when he, the Reverend John, knew perfectly well

that if his own canine comrade had been thus cruelly slain, he also

would have 'hated the quality.'

"Look here, Bob," he said at last,--"I know just how you feel! It's

just as bad as bad can be. But try and be a man, won't you? You

can't bring the poor little creature back to life again,--and it's

no use frightening your mother with all this grief for what cannot

be helped. Then there's poor Kitty--SHE 'hates the quality';--her

little heart is sore and full of bad feelings--all for the sake of

you and your dog, Bob! She's giving her mother no end of trouble up

at the Manor, crying and fretting--suppose you go and see her? Talk

it over together, like two good children, and try if you can't

comfort each other. What do you say?"

Bob rose from beside the chair where he had flung himself on his

knees when Walden had entered his mother's cottage,--and rubbed his

knuckles hard into his eyes with a long and dismal sniff.

"I'll try, sir!" he said chokingly, and then suddenly seizing

'Passon's' hand, he kissed it with boyish fervour, caught up his cap

and ran out. Walden stood for a moment inert,--there was an

uncomfortable tightness in his throat.

"Poor lad!" he said to himself,--"He is suffering as much in his way

as older people suffer in theirs,--perhaps even more,--because to

the young, injustice always seems strange--to the old it has become

customary and natural!"

He sighed,--and with a pleasant word or two to Mrs. Keeley, who

waited at her door for him to come out, and who thanked him

profusely for coming to 'hearten up the boy,' he went on his usual

round through the village, uncomfortably conscious that perhaps his

first impressions respecting Miss Vancourt's home-coming were

correct,--and that it might have been better for the peace and

happiness of all the simple inhabitants of St. Rest, if she had

never come.

Certainly there was no denying that a change had crept over the

little sequestered place,--a change scarcely perceptible, but

nevertheless existent. A vague restlessness pervaded the

atmosphere,--each inhabitant of each cottage was always on the look-

out for a passing glimpse of one of the Abbot's Manor guests, or one

of the Abbot's Manor servants,--it did not matter which, so long as

something or somebody from the Manor came along. Sir Morton Pippitt

had, of course, not failed to take full advantage of any slight

surface or social knowledge he possessed of Miss Vancourt's guests,-

-and had, with his usual bluff pomposity, invited them all over to

Badsworth Hall. Some of them accepted his invitation,--others

declined it. Lord Charlemont and Mr. Bludlip Courtenay discovered

him to be a 'game old boy'--while Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby found

something congenial in the society of Miss Tabitha Pippitt, who,

cherishing as she did, an antique-virgin passion for the Reverend

John Walden, whom her father detested, had come to regard herself as

a sort of silent martyr to the rough usages of this world, and was

therefore not unwilling to listen to the long stories of life's

disillusions which Lady Wicketts unravelled for her benefit, and

which Miss Fosby, with occasional references to the photographs and

prints of the 'Madonna' or the 'Girl with Lilies' tearfully

confirmed. So the motor-cars continually flashed between Abbot's

Manor and Badsworth Hall, and Lady Beaulyon apparently found so much

to amuse her that she stayed on longer than she had at first

intended. So did Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay. They had their reasons for

prolonging their visit,--reasons more cogent than love of fresh air,

or admiration of pastoral scenery. Both of them kept up an active

correspondence with Maryllia's aunt, Mrs. Fred Vancourt, a lady who

was their 'very dear' friend, owing to her general usefulness in the

matter of money. And Mrs. Fred having a fixed plan in her mind

concerning the welfare and good establishment of her niece, they

were not unwilling to assist her in the furtherance of her views,

knowing that whatever trouble they took would be substantially

rewarded 'under the rose.'

So they remained, on one excuse or the other,--while other guests

came or went, and took long walks and motor-rides in the

neighbourhood and amused themselves pretty much in their own way,

Maryllia rightly considering that to be the truest form of

hospitality. She herself, however, was living a somewhat restrained

life among them,--and she began to realise more than ever the

difference between 'friends' and 'acquaintances,' and the hopeless

ennui engendered by the proximity of the latter, without the

sympathy of the former. She was learning the lesson that cannot be

too soon mastered by everyone who seeks for pure happiness in this

world--'The Kingdom of God is within you.' In herself she was not

content,--yet she knew no way in which to make herself contented. "I

want something"--she said to herself--"Yet I do not know what I

want." Her pleasantest time during the inroad of her society

friends, was when, after her daily housekeeping consultations with

Mrs. Spruce, she could go and have a chat with Cicely in that young

person's small study, which was set apart for her, next to her

bedroom nearly at the top of the house, and which commanded a wide

view of the Manor park-lands, and the village of St. Rest, with the

silvery river winding through it, and the spire of the church rising

from the surrounding foliage like a finger pointing to heaven. And

she also found relief from the strain of constant entertaining by

rising early in the mornings and riding on her favourite 'Cleopatra'

all over her property, calling on her new agent, Frank Stanways, and

his wife, and chatting with the various persons in her employ. She

did not however go much into the village, and on this point one

morning her agent ventured to observe--

"Old Mr. Letherbarrow has been saying that he has not seen you

lately, Miss Vancourt,--not since your friends came down. He seems

to miss you very much."

Maryllia, swaying lightly in her saddle, stooped over her mare's

neck and patted it, to hide sudden tears that sprang, she knew not

why, to her eyes.

"Poor Josey!" she said--"I'm sorry! Tell him I'll come as soon as

all my visitors are gone--they will not stay long. The dinner-party

next week concludes everything. Then I shall have time to go about

the village as usual."

"That will be delightful!" said Alicia Stanways, a bright little

woman, whose introduction and supervision of a 'model dairy' on the

Abbot's Manor estate was the pride of her life--"It really makes all

the people happy to see you! Little Ipsie Frost was actually crying

for you the other day."

"Was she? Poor little soul! The idea of a child crying for me! It's

quite a novel experience!" And Maryllia laughed--"But I don't think

I'm wanted at all in the village. Mr. Walden does everything."

"So he does!"--agreed Stanways--"He's a true 'minister' if there

ever was one. Still, he has not been quite so much about lately."

"No?" queried Maryllia--"I expect he's very busy!"

"I think he has only one wish in the world!" said Mrs. Stanways,

smiling.

"What is that?" asked Maryllia, still stroking 'Cleopatra's' glossy

neck thoughtfully.

"To fill the big rose-window in the church with stained glass,--real

'old' stained glass! He's always having some bits sent to him, and I

believe he passes whole hours piecing it together. It's his great

hobby. He won't have a morsel that is not properly authenticated.

He's dreadfully particular,--but then all old bachelors are!"

Maryllia smiled, and bidding them good-morning cantered off. She was

curiously touched at the notion of old Josey Letherbarrow missing

her, and 'Baby Hippolyta' crying for her.

"Not one of my society friends would miss me!"--she said to herself-

-"And certainly I know nobody who would cry for me!" She checked her

thoughts--"Except Cicely. SHE would miss me,--SHE would cry for me!

But, in plain matter-of-fact terms, there is no one else who cares

for me. Only Cicely!"

She looked up as she rode, and saw that she was passing the 'Five

Sisters,' now in all the glorious panoply of opulent summer leafage.

Moved by a sudden impulse, she galloped up the knoll, and drew rein

exactly at the spot where she had given Oliver Leach his dismissal,

and where she had first met John Walden. The wind rustled softly

through the boughs, which bent and swayed before her, as though the

grand old trees said: 'Thanks to you, we live!' Birds flew from twig

to twig,--and the persistent murmur of many bees working amid the

wild thyme which spread itself in perfumed purple patches among the

moss and grass, sounded like the far-off hum of a human crowd.

"I did something useful when I saved you, you dear old beeches!" she

said--"But the worst of it is I've done nothing worth doing since!"

She sighed, and her pretty brows puckered into a perplexed line, as

she slowly guided 'Cleopatra' down the knoll again.

"It's all so lonely!" she murmured--"I felt just a little dull

before Eva Beaulyon and the others came,--but it's ever so much

duller with them than without them!"

That afternoon, in compliance with a particularly pressing request

from Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, she accompanied a party of her guests

to Badsworth, driving thither in Lord Charlemont's motor. Sir Morton

Pippitt, red-faced and pompous as usual, met them at the door, in

all the resplendency of new grey summer tweeds and prominent white

waist-coat, his clean-shaven features shining with recent soap, and

his white hair glistening like silver. He was quite in his element,

as he handed out the beautiful Lady Beaulyon from the motor-car, and

expressed his admiration for her looks in no unmeasured terms,--he

felt himself to be almost an actual Badsworth, of Badsworth Hall, as

he patted Lord Charlemont familiarly on the shoulder, and called him

'My dear boy!' As he greeted Maryllia, he smiled at her knowingly.

"I think I have a friend of yours here to-day, my dear lady!" he

said with an expressive chuckle--"Someone who is most anxious to see

you!" And escorting her with obtrusive gallantry into the hall, he

brought her face to face with a tall, elegant, languid-looking man

who bowed profoundly; "I believe you know Lord Roxmouth?"

The blood sprang to her brows,--and for a moment she was so startled

and angry that she could scarcely breathe. A swift glance from under

her long lashes showed her the situation--how Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay

was watching her with ill-concealed amusement, and how all the rest

of the party were expectant of a 'sensation.' She saw it all in a

moment,--she recognised that a trap had been laid for her to fall

into unwarily, and realising the position she rose to it at once.

"How do you do!" she said carelessly, nodding ner head without

giving her hand--"I thought I should meet you this afternoon!"

"Did you really!" murmured Roxmouth--"Some magnetic current of

thought---"

"Yes,--'by the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way

comes!'--THAT sort of sensation, you know!" and she laughed; then

perceiving a man standing in the background whose sleek form and

lineaments she instantly recognised, she added--"And how are you,

Mr. Longford? Did you bring Lord Roxmouth here, or did he bring

you?"

Marius Longford, 'of the Savage and Savile,' was taken by surprise,

and looked a little uncomfortable. He stroked one pussy whisker.

"We came together," he explained in his affected falsetto voice--

"Sir Morton Pippitt was good enough to invite me to bring any

friend,--and so--"

"I see!" and Maryllia lifted her little head with an unconscious

gesture, implying pride, or disdain, or both, as she passed with the

other guests into the Badsworth Hall drawing-room; "The country is

so delightful at this time of year!"

She moved on. Lord Roxmouth stroked down his fair moustache to hide

a smile, and quietly followed her. He was a good-looking man, tall

and well-built, with a rather pale, clean-cut face, and sandy hair

brushed very smooth; form and respectability were expressed in the

very outline of his figure and the fastidious neatness and nicety of

his clothes. Entering the room where Miss Tabitha Pippitt was

solemnly presiding over the tea-tray with a touch-me-not air of

inflexible propriety, he soon made himself the useful and agreeable

centre of a group of ladies, to whom he carried cake, bread-and-

butter and other light refreshments, with punctilious care, looking

as though his life depended upon the exact performance of these

duties. Once or twice he glanced at Maryllia, and decided that she

appeared younger and prettier than when he had seen her in town. She

was chatting with some of the country people, and Lord Roxmouth

waited for several moments in vain for an opportunity to intervene.

Finally, securing a cup of iced coffee, he carried it to her.

"No, thanks!" she said, as he approached.

"Strawberries?" he suggested, appealingly.

"Nothing, thank you!"

Smiling a little, he looked at her.

"I wish you would give me a word, Miss Vancourt! Won't you?"

"A dozen, if you like!"--she replied, indifferently--"How is Aunt

Emily?"

"I am glad you ask after her!"--he said, impressively--"She is

well,--but she misses you very much." He paused, and added in a

lower tone--"So do I!"

She was silent.

"I know you are angry!" he went on softly--"You went away from

London to avoid me, and you are vexed to see me down here. But I

couldn't resist the temptation of coming. Marius Longford told me he

had called upon you with Sir Morton Pippitt at Abbot's Manor,--and I

got him to bring me down on a visit to Badsworth Hall,--only to be

near you! You are looking quite lovely, Maryllia!"

She raised her eyes and fixed them full on him. His own fell.

"I said you were angry, and you are!" he murmured--"But you have the

law in your own hands,--you need not ask me to your house unless you

like!"

The buzz of conversation in the room was now loud and incessant. Sir

Morton Pippitt's 'afternoon teas' were always more or less

bewildering and brain-jarring entertainments, where a great many

people of various 'sets,' in the town of Riversford and the county

generally, came together, without knowing each other, or wishing to

know each other,--where the wife of the leading doctor in

Riversford, for example, glowered scorn and contempt on Mrs.

Mordaunt Appleby, the wife of the brewer in the same town, and where

those of high and unimpeachable 'family,' like Mrs. Mandeville

Poreham, whose mother was a Beedle, stared frigidly and unseeingly

at every one hailing from the same place as creatures beneath her

notice.

For--"Thank God!"--said Mrs. Poreham, with feeling,--"I do not live

in Riversford. I would not live in Riversford if I were paid a

fortune to do so! My poor mother never permitted me to associate

with tradespeople. There are no ladies or gentlemen in Riversford,--

I should be expected to shake hands with my butcher if I resided

there,--but I am proud and glad to say that at present I know nobody

in the place. I never intend to know anybody there!"

Several curious glances were turned upon Miss Vancourt as she stood

near an open window looking out on the Badsworth Hall 'Italian

Garden,'--a relic of Badsworth times,--her fair head turned away

from the titled aristocrat who bent towards her, as it seemed, in an

attitude of humble appeal,--and one or two would-be wise persons

nodded their heads and whispered--"That's the man she's engaged to."

"Oh, really!---and his name---?" "Lord Roxmouth;--will be Duke of

Ormistoune---" "Good gracious! THAT woman a Duchess!" snorted Mrs.

Mordaunt Appleby, as she heard--"The men must be going mad!" Which

latter remark implied that had she not unfortunately married a

brewer, she might easily have secured the Ormistoune ducal coronet

herself.

Unaware of the gossip going on around her, Maryllia stayed where she

was at the window, coldly silent, her eyes fixed on the glowing

flower-beds patterned in front of her,--the gorgeous mass of

petunias, and flame-colored geraniums,--the rich saffron and brown

tints of thick clustered calceolarias,--the purple and crimson of

pendulous fuchsias, whose blossoms tumbled one upon the other in a

riot of splendid colour,--and all at once her thoughts strayed

capriciously to the cool green seclusion of John Walden's garden.

She remembered the spray of white lilac he had given her, and

fancied she could almost inhale again its delicious perfume. But the

lilac flowering-time was over now--and the roses had it all their

own way,--she had given a rose in exchange for the lilac, and--Here

she started almost nervously as Lord Roxmouth's voice again fell on

her ears.

"You are not sparing me any of your attention," he said--"Your mind

is engrossed with something--or somebody--else! Possibly I have a

rival?"

He smiled, but there was a quick hard gleam of suspicion in his cold

grey eyes. Maryllia gave him a look of supreme disdain.

"You are insolent," she said, speaking in very low but emphatic

tones--"You always were! You presume too much on Aunt Emily's

encouragement of your attentions to me, which you know are

unwelcome. You are perfectly aware that I left London to escape a

scheme concocted by you and her to so compromise me in the view of

society, that no choice should be left to me save marriage with you.

Now you have followed me here, and I know why! You have come to try

and find out what I do with myself--to spy upon my actions and

occupations, and take back your report to Aunt Emily. You are

perfectly welcome to enter upon this congenial task! You can visit

me at my own house,--you can play detective all over the place, if

you are happy in that particular role. Every opportunity shall be

given you!"

He bowed. "Thank you!" And stroking his moustache, as was his

constant habit, he smiled again. "You are really very cruel to me,

Maryllia! Why can I never win your confidence--I will not say your

affection? May I not know?"

"You may!"--she answered coldly--"It is because there is nothing in

you to trust and nothing to value. I have told you this so often

that I wonder you want to be told it again! And though I give you

permission to call on me at my own home,--just to save you the

trouble of telling Aunt Emily that her 'eccentric' niece was too

'peculiar' to admit you there,--I reserve to myself the right at any

moment to shut the door against you."

She moved from him then, and seeing the Ittlethwaites of

Ittlethwaite Park, went to speak to them. He stood where she had

left him, surveying the garden in front of him with absolute

complacency. Mr. Marius Longford joined him.

"Well?" said the light of the Savage and Savile tentatively.

"Well! She is the same ungovernable termagant as ever--conceited

little puss! But she always amuses me--that's one consolation!" He

laughed, and taking out his cigar-case, opened it. "Will you have

one?" Longford accepted the favour. "Who is this old fellow,

Pippitt?" he asked--"Any relation of the dead and gone Badsworth?

How does he get Badsworth Hall? Doesn't he grind bones to make his

bread, or something of that kind?"

Longford explained with civil obsequiousness that Sir Morton Pippitt

had certainly once 'ground bones,' but that he had 'retired' from

such active service, while still retaining the largest share in the

bone business. That he had bought Badsworth Hall as it stood,--

pictures, books, furniture and all, for what was to him a mere

trifle; and that he was now assuming to himself by lawful purchase,

the glory of the whole deceased Badsworth family.

Lord Roxmouth shrugged his shoulders in contempt.

"Such will be the fate of Roxmouth Castle!" he said--"Some grinder

of bones or maker of beer will purchase it, and perhaps point out

the picture of the founder of the house as being that of a former

pot-boy!"

"The old order changeth,"--said Longford, with a chill smile--"And I

suppose we should learn to accustom ourselves to it. But you, with

your position and good looks, should be able to prevent any such

possibility as you suggest. Miss Vancourt is not the only woman in

the world."

"By no means,"--and Roxmouth strolled into the garden, Longford

walking beside him--"But she is the only woman I at present know,

who, if she obeys her aunt's wishes, will have a fortune of several

millions. And just because such a little devil SHOULD be mastered

and MUST be mastered, I have resolved to master her. That's all!"

"And, to your mind, sufficient,"--said Longford--"But if it is a

question of the millions chiefly, there is always the aunt herself."

Roxmouth stared--then laughed.

"The aunt!" he ejaculated--"The aunt?"

"Why not?" And Longford stole a furtive look round at the man who

was his chief literary patron--"The aunt is handsome, well-

preserved, not more than forty-five at most--and I should say she is

a woman who could be easily led--through vanity."

"The aunt!" again murmured Roxmouth--"My dear Longford! What an

appalling suggestion! Mrs. Fred as the Duchess of Ormistoune! Forbid

it, Heaven!"

Then suddenly he laughed aloud.

"By Jove! It would be too utterly ridiculous! Whatever made you

think of such a thing?"

"Only the prospect you yourself suggested,"--replied Longford--"That

of seeing a brewer or a bone-melter in possession of Roxmouth

Castle. Surely even Mrs. Fred would be preferable to that!"

With an impatient exclamation Roxmouth suddenly changed the subject;

but Longford was satisfied that he had sown a seed, which might,--

time and circumstances permitting,--sprout and grow into a tangible

weed or flower.

Maryllia meantime had made good her escape from the scene of Sir

Morton Pippitt's 'afternoon-tea' festivity. Gently moving through

the throng with that consummate grace which was her natural

heritage, she consented to be introduced to the 'county' generally,

smiling sweetly upon all, and talking so kindly to the Mandeville

Poreham girls, that she threw them into fluttering ecstasies of

delight, and caused them to declare afterwards to their mother that

Miss Vancourt was the sweetest, dearest, darlingest creature they

had ever met! She stood with patience while Sir Morton Pippitt,

over-excited by the presence of the various 'titled' personages in

his house, guffawed and blustered in her face over the 'little

surprise' he had prepared for her in the unexpected appearance of

Lord Roxmouth; she listened to his "Ha!-ha!-ha! My dear lady! We

know a thing or two! Handsome fellow,--handsome fellow! Think of a

poor old plain Knight when you are a Duchess! Ha! ha! ha! God bless

my soul!"---and without a word in confirmation or denial of his

blatant observations, she managed to slip gradually out of the

drawing-room to the hall and from thence to the carriage drive,

where she found, as she thought she would, Lord Charlemont looking

tenderly into the mechanism of his motor-car, unscrewing this,

peering into that, and generally hanging round the vehicle with a

fatuous lover's enthusiasm.

"Would you mind taking me back to St. Rest now?" she enquired--"I

have an appointment in the village--you can do the journey in no

time."

"Delighted!" And Charlemont got his machine into the proper state of

spluttering, gasping eagerness to depart. "Anyone coming with you?"

"No--nobody knows I am leaving." And Maryllia mounted lightly into

the car. "You can return and fetch the others afterwards. Put me

down at the church, please!"

In a moment more the car flashed down the drive and out of Badsworth

Hall precincts, and was soon panting and pounding along the country

road at most unlawful speed. As a rule Maryllia hated being in a

motor-car, but on this occasion she was glad of the swift rush

through the air; had the vehicle torn madly down a precipice she

would scarcely have cared, so eager was she to get away from the

hateful vicinity of Lord Roxmouth. She was angry too--angry with

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, whose hand she recognised in the matter as

having so earnestly begged her to go to Badsworth Hall that

afternoon,--she despised Sir Morton Pippitt for lending himself to

the scheme,--and with all her heart she loathed Mr. Marius Longford

whom she at once saw was Roxmouth's paid tool. The furious rate at

which Lord Charlemont drove his car was a positive joy to her--and

as he was much too busy with his steering gear to speak, she gave

herself up to the smouldering indignation that burned in her soul

while she was, so to speak, carried through space as on a panting

whirlwind.

"Why can they not leave me alone!" she thought passionately--"How

dare they follow me to my own home!--my own lands!--and spy upon me

in everything I do! It is a positive persecution and more than

that,--it is a wicked design on Aunt Emily's part to compromise me

with Roxmouth. She wants to set people talking down here in the

country just as she set them talking in town, and to make everyone

think I am engaged to him, or OUGHT to be engaged to him. It is

cruel!--I suppose I shall be driven away from here just as I have

been driven from London,--is there NO way in which I can escape from

this man whom I hate!--NO place in the world where he cannot find me

and follow me!"

The brown hue of thatched roofs through the trees here caused Lord

Charlemont to turn round and address her.

"Just there!" he said, briefly--"Six minutes exactly!"

"Good!" said Maryllia, nodding approvingly--"But go slowly through

the village, won't you? There are so many dear little children

always playing about."

He slackened speed at once, and with a weird toot-tootling of his

horn guided the car on at quite a respectable ambling-donkey pace.

"You said the church?"

"Yes, please!"

Another minute, and she had alighted.

"Thanks so much!" she said, smiling up into his goggle-guarded eyes.

"Will you rush back for the others, please? And--and--may I ask you

a favour?"

"A thousand!" he answered, thinking what a pretty little woman she

was, as he spoke.

"Well--don't--even if they want you to do so,--don't bring Lord

Roxmouth or Mr. Marius Longford back to the Manor. They are Sir

Morton Pippitt's friends and guests--they are not mine!"

A faint flicker of surprise passed over the aristocratic motor-

driver's features, but he made no observation. He merely said:

"All right! I'm game!"

Which brief sentence meant, for Lord Charlemont, that he was loyal

to the death. He was not romantic in the style of expressing

himself,--he would not have understood how to swear fealty on a

drawn sword--but when he said--'I'm game,'-it came to the same

thing. Reversing his car, he sped away, whizzing up the road like a

boomerang, back to Badsworth Hall. Maryllia watched him till he was

out of sight,--then with a sigh of relief, she turned and look

wistfully at the church. Its beautiful architecture had the

appearance of worn ivory in the mellow radiance of the late

afternoon, and the sculptured figures of the Twelve Apostles in

their delicately carved niches, six on either side of the portal,

seemed almost life-like, as the rays of the warm and brilliant

sunshine, tempered by a touch of approaching evening, struck them

aslant as with a luminance from heaven. She lifted the latch of the

churchyard gate,--and walking slowly with bent head between the rows

of little hillocks where, under every soft green quilt of grass lay

someone sleeping, she entered the sacred building. It was quite

empty. There was a scent of myrtle and lilies in the air,--it came

from two clusters of blossoms which were set at either side of the

gold cross on the altar. Stepping softly, and with reverence,

Maryllia went up to the Communion rails, and looked long and

earnestly at the white alabaster sarcophagus which, in its unknown

origin and antiquity, was the one unsolved mystery of St. Rest. A

vague sensation of awe stole upon her,--and she sank involuntarily

on her knees.

"If I could pray now,"--she thought--"What should I pray for?"

And then it seemed that something wild and appealing rose in her

heart and clamoured for an utterance which her tongue refused to

give,--her bosom heaved,--her lips trembled,--and suddenly a rush of

tears blinded her eyes.

"Oh, if I were only LOVED!" she murmured under her breath--"If only

someone could find me worth caring for! I would endure any

suffering, any loss, to win this one priceless gift,--love!"

A little smothered sob broke from her lips.

"Father! Mother!" she whispered, instinctively stretching out her

hands--"I am so lonely!--so very, very lonely!"

Only silence answered her, and the dumb perfume of the altar

flowers. She rose,--and stood a moment trying to control herself,--a

pretty little pitiful figure in her dainty, garden-party frock, a

soft white chiffon hat tied on under her rounded chin with a knot of

pale blue ribbon, and a tiny cobweb of a lace kerchief in her hand

with which she dried her wet eyes.

"Oh dear!" she sighed--"It's no use crying! It only shows what a

weak little idiot I am! I'm lonely, of course,--I can't expect

anything else; I shall always be lonely--Roxmouth and Aunt Emily

will take care of that. The lies they will tell about me will keep

off every man but the one mean and slanderous fortune-hunter, to

whom lies are second nature. And as I won't marry HIM, I shall be

left to myself--I shall be an old maid. Though that doesn't matter--

old maids are often the happiest women. Anyhow, I'd rather be an old

maid than Duchess of Ormistoune."

She dabbed her eyes with the little handkerchief again, and went

slowly out of the church. And as she stepped from the shadow of its

portal into the sunshiny open air, she came face to face with John

Walden. He started back at the sudden sight of her,--then

recollecting himself, raised his hat, looking at her with

questioning eyes.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Walden!" she said, affecting a sprightly air--

"Are you quite well?"

He smiled.

"Quite. And you? You look---"

"As if I had been crying, I suppose?"--she suggested. "So I have.

Women often cry."

"They do,--but---"

"But why should they?--you would say, being a man,"--and Maryllia

forced a laugh.--"And that's a question difficult to answer! Are you

going into the church?"

"Not for a service, or on any urgent matter,"--replied John--"I left

a book in the vestry which I want to refer to,--that's all."

"Fetch it," said Maryllia--"I'll wait for you here."

He glanced at her--and saw that her lips trembled, and that she was

still on the verge of tears. He hurried off at once, realising that

she wanted a minute or two to recover herself. His heart beat

foolishly fast and uncomfortably,--he wondered what had grieved or

annoyed her.

"Poor little soul!" he murmured, reflecting on a conversation with

which Julian Adderley had regaled him the previous day, concerning

some of the guests at Abbot's Manor--"Poor, weary, sweet little

soul!"

While Maryllia, during his brief absence was thinking--"I won't cry,

or he'll take me for a worse fool than I am. He looks so terribly

intellectual--so wise and cool and calm!--and yet I think--I THINK

he was rather pleased to see me!"

She smoothed her face into a smile,--gave one or two more reproving

taps to her eyelids with her morsel of a kerchief, and was quite

self-possessed when he returned, with a worn copy of the Iliad under

his arm.

"Is that the book you wanted?" she asked.

"Yes--" and he showed it to her--"I admit it had no business to be

left in the church."

She peeped between the covers.

"Oh, it's all Greek!"--she said--"Do you read Greek?"

"It is one of the happiest accomplishments I learned at college,"--

he replied. "I have eased many a heartache by reading Homer in the

original."

She looked meditative.

"Now that's very strange!" she murmured--"I should never have

thought that to read Homer in the original Greek would ease a

heartache! How does it do it? Will you teach me?"

She raised her eyes--how beautiful and blue they were he thought!--

more beautiful for the mist of weeping that still lingered about

their soft radiance.

"I will teach you Greek, if you like, with pleasure!"--he said,

smiling a little, though his lips trembled--"But whether it would

cure any heartache of yours I could not promise!"

"Still, if it cures YOUR heartaches?" she persisted.

"Mine are of a different character, I think!"--and the smile in his

eyes deepened, as he looked down at her wistfully upturned face,--"I

am getting old,--you are still young. That makes all the difference.

My aches can be soothed by philosophy,--yours could only be charmed

away by--"

He broke off abruptly. The hot blood rose to his temples, and

retreated again, leaving him very pale.

She looked at him earnestly.

"Well!--by what?"

"I imagine you know, Miss Vancourt! There is only one thing that can

ease the burden of life for a woman, and that is--love!"

She nodded her fair head sagaciously.

"Of course! But that is just what I shall never have,--so it's no

use wanting it. I had better learn to read Greek at once, without

delay! When shall I come for my first lesson?"

She laughed unforcedly now, as she looked up at him. They were

walking side by side out of the churchyard.

"You are much too busy to learn Greek," he said, laughing with her.

"Your London friends claim all your time,--much to the regret of our

little village."

"Ah!--but they won't be with me very long now,"--she rejoined--

"They'll all go after the dinner next week, except Louis Gigue.

Gigue is coming for a day or two and he will perhaps stay on a bit

to give lessons to Cicely. But he's not a society man. Oh, dear no!

Quite the contrary--he's a perfect savage!--and says the most awful

things! Poor old Gigue!"

She laughed again, and looked happier and brighter than she had done

for days.

"You have rather spoilt the villagers," went on Walden, as he opened

the churchyard gate for her to pass out, and closed it again behind

them both. "They've got accustomed to seeing you look in upon them

at all hours,--and, of course, they miss you. Little Ipsie Frost

especially frets after you."

"I'll go and see her very, very soon," said Maryllia, impulsively;

"Dear little thing! When you see her next, tell her I'm coming,

won't you?"

"I will," he rejoined,--then paused, looking at her earnestly. "Your

friends must find St. Rest a very old-fashioned, world-forgotten

sort of place,"--he continued--"And you must, equally, find it

difficult to amuse them?"

"Well, perhaps, just a little," she admitted--"The fact is--but tell

it not in Gath--I was happier without them! They bore me to death!

All the same they really mean to be very nice,--they don't care, of

course, for the things I care about,--trees and flowers and books

and music,--but then I am always such an impossible person!"

"Are you?" His eyes were full of gentleness as he put this question-

-"I should not have thought that!"

She coloured a little--then changed the subject.

"You have seen Lady Beaulyon, haven't you?" He bent his head in the

affirmative--"Isn't she lovely?"

"Not to me," he replied, quietly--"But then I'm no judge."

She looked at him in surprise.

"She is considered the most beautiful woman in England!"

"By whom?", he enquired;--"By the society paragraphists who are paid

for their compliments?"

Maryllia laughed.

"Oh, I don't know anything about that!" she said--"I never met a

paragraphist in my life that I know of. But Eva is beautiful--there

is no denying it. And Margaret Bludlip Courtenay is called the

youngest woman in the world!"

"She looks it!" answered Walden, with great heartiness. "I cannot

imagine Time making any sort of mark upon her. Because--if you don't

mind my saying so--she has really nothing for Time to write upon!"

His tone was eminently good-natured, and Maryllia glancing at his

smiling face laughed gaily.

"You are very wicked, Mr. Walden," she said mirthfully--"In fact,

you are a quiz, and you shouldn't be a quiz and a clergyman both

together. Oh, by the way! Why did you stop reading the service when

we all came in late to church that Sunday?"

He looked full at her.

"Precisely for that reason. Because you all came in late."

Maryllia peered timorously at him, with her pretty head on one side,

like an enquiring bird.

"Do you think it was polite?"

Walden laughed.

"I was not studying politeness just then,"--he answered--"I was

exercising my own authority."

"Oh!" She paused. "Lady Beaulyon and the others did not like it at

all. They thought you were trying to make us ashamed of ourselves."

"They were right,"--he said, cheerfully--"I was!"

"Well,--you succeeded,--in a way. But I was angry!"

He smiled.

"Were you, really? How dreadful! But you got over it?"

"Yes,"--she said, meditatively--"I got over it. I suppose you were

right,--and of course we were wrong. But aren't you a very arbitrary

person?"

His eyes sparkled mirthfully.

"I believe I am. But I never ask anyone to attend church,--everyone

in the parish is free to do as they like about that. Only if people

do come, I expect them to be punctual,--that's all."

"I see! And if they're not, you make them feel very small and cheap

about it. People don't like being made small and cheap,--_I_ don't,

for instance. Now good-bye! You are coming to dine next week,

remember!"

"I remember!" he rejoined, as he raised his hat in farewell. "And do

you think you will learn Greek?"

"I am sure I will!--as soon as ever all these people are gone. The

week after next I shall be quite free again."

"And happy?"

She hesitated.

"Not quite, perhaps, but as happy as I ever can be! Good-bye!"

She held out her hand. He pressed it gently, and let her go,

watching her as she moved along the road holding up her dainty skirt

from the dust, and walking with the ease and graceful carriage which

was, to her, second nature. Then he went into his own garden with

the Iliad, and addressing his ever attentive and complaisant dog,

said:

"Look here, Nebbie--we mustn't think about her! She's a bewildering

little person, with a good deal of the witch glamour in her eyes and

smile,--and it's quite absurd for such staid and humdrum creatures

as you and I, Nebbie, to imagine that we can ever be of the

slightest service to her, or to dream that she ever gives us a

single thought when she has once turned her back upon us. But it is

a pity she should cry about anything!--her eyes were not made for

tears--her life was not created for sorrow! It should be all

sunshine and roses for her--French damask roses, of course!" and he

smiled--"with their hearts full of perfume and their petals full of

colour! As for me, there should only be the grey of her plots of

lavender,--lavender that is dried and put away in a drawer, and more

often than not helps to give fragrance to the poor corpse ready for

burial!"

He sighed, and opened his Homer. Greek, for once, failed to ease his

heartache, and the Iliad seemed singularly over-strained and deadly

dull.